CHAPTER 18 JOLENE

He answers the door while I stay in bed and finish my whiskey, and when he returns, he tosses the pizza box in the middle of the bed. I've never actually eaten in a hotel bed before, but I go with it.

We each grab a slice, and after he takes his first bite, he says, "Do you have any confessions?"

I can't help a little chuckle as I think back to the first time he asked the same question.

It was the night he first kissed me.

I didn't have one I was ready to give to him, but he did.

He wanted me to say it first, but I didn't. I was too scared to ruin the friendship we had.

He wasn't.

I want to kiss you.

That's what started it, and from then on, any time either of us knew the other one had something to say, we'd ask the question. Sometimes one of us would say it when we had something to confess, too—like the time I told him I was ready.

The reminder causes my chuckle to turn serious pretty quickly. "A lot of time has passed, Lincoln," I say quietly. "I probably have quite a few."

"Yeah," he murmurs. "So do I." He's quiet as he chews a few more bites of pizza. "What's it like having a kid?"

"Starting with the big guns." I'm quiet a beat as I contemplate how to answer. "It's both the best and hardest thing I've ever done."

"In what ways?"

"It's amazing to watch this little person who is a literal part of you grow and turn from a baby into a kid into a little person with his own personality. But it's also all-consuming. I love him in a way I didn't know existed. He brings me more joy than I've ever felt before. But there are days when I've got nothing left to give. There are days when I feel like I'm either mom or journalist and there's no Jolene left." I shrug. "Then I look into the eyes that are an exact replica of my own, and this overwhelming feeling of love just washes over me. But other times, I feel guilty because I'm pawning him off on my parents or my friend while I'm trying to advance my career. It's just…hard."

"You're not pawning him off," he says softly. "That must be really difficult."

"It's impossible. And the worst is when he goes to his dad's." I roll my eyes.

"Tell me about his dad."

"I'd rather not," I mutter. But when I glance over at him and see the earnestness in his eyes, I get the sense he truly wants to know more. He truly cares.

I clear my throat. "We were engaged. I got pregnant. He cheated." I shrug. "End of story. Now he's married to the girl he cheated on me with, and they have two little girls. They're where he spends his time, and he doesn't give his first child the same attention."

He wrinkles his nose. "What a douchebag."

"You don't know the half of it," I agree.

"Then tell me."

I shake my head. "You first. Confession."

"What do you want to know? I'm an open book."

I snort at that as I grab a second piece of pizza. "Okay. Why'd you quit playing?"

"And you thought I went for the big guns," he mutters.

I shrug. "This was your idea. Total honesty. Go."

"I plead the fifth." He takes a bite of his slice.

"I don't think so, pal. Confess."

"Am I speaking with JoLo, the girl who once held my heart in her hands? Or is this Jolene Bailey, team correspondent?"

I clear my throat as my cheeks flush. "Anything we say when I'm not wearing underwear stays between us."

He laughs, but it fades quickly. He gets up and pours us both more whiskey, and he hands me mine before he answers. He doesn't sit. "Not even your friend can know."

"She's a nurse. She's the one who told me that you could've recovered."

"Fine. Still, nobody knows. You never confirm or deny your suspicions to her."

I nod. "I swear."

He stares at me for a few beats, and then, to my complete and utter shock, he tells me. "It was a bad injury. There was an infection. I had to have additional surgeries. There was talk that I might not make it back to the field at first, and that was the story that my publicity team released." He shakes his head a little as he's transported back to that time. "I made peace with that, and a small part of me had this strange sense of relief I wasn't expecting when I was told I might not get back to the field. I thought maybe it was just the drugs helping me cope. The mere thought of a career-ending injury for an NFL player would be devastating, but instead my thoughts immediately turned to coaching. It turned to what came after playing. I didn't want to keep beating the hell out of my body. I was tired of blocking defensive linemen and getting plowed down for it. I was just…tired of playing. I'd been doing it since I was old enough to join my first pee-wee league, and I didn't want to do it anymore even though I still wanted to be connected to the game. I wanted to strategize. I wanted to be in charge. But there was literally nobody I could admit that to. Literally nobody." He stops, and his eyes meet mine. "My father…I couldn't disappoint him."

"That must've been impossible," I say, offering my sympathy.

He drains the whiskey in his glass. "I couldn't just opt out of the game. So I asked the doctor not to speak to anyone about the injury, and since he had to follow confidentiality laws, I used the knee as my out and rewrote my own narrative." He shrugs at the end and sits on the edge of the bed. "So go ahead and judge me however you want, but that's my story, and you're the only one who knows it aside from my doctor and myself, so if you publish it, I go to the press and let them know you're just a bitter ex making up stories."

I gasp a little at the end of his diatribe. It's not the fact that he lied to the world about his injury—something I already suspected.

It's the fact that he feels like he needs to threaten me to ensure I won't tell anyone.

It hurts.

Far worse than I ever imagined it would.

"Lincoln, I won't tell a soul. I swear. You can trust me."

He glances over at me, and I finish my whiskey and slam the glass on the nightstand.

"But if you ever threaten me again, you will not like the results."

He clenches his jaw, and he sets his empty glass on the dresser. "Understood."

"Thank you for sharing that with me, but I have to ask. What made you confess?"

He shakes his head. "I have no fucking clue. Your magical pussy, maybe."

Despite the gravity in this room, I can't help when I break into a fit of giggles at that.

"Want more?" he asks, holding up the whiskey bottle.

"If I have anymore, I'll be drunk."

He grins and pours us each a little more before he perches back at the foot of the bed. "Then drink up, JoLo."

JoLo. I haven't been called that since…well, since the last time he called me that.

My first and middle name. Jolene Lorraine. He's the only one who has ever called me that.

"What are you going to do with me once I'm drunk?" I ask.

He smirks. "I've never seen a drunk Jolene Bailey. Remember how adamantly you were against alcohol when you were fifteen?"

I laugh. "Yeah. Times have changed."

"But you're still as stubborn as you ever were."

I take a sip. "I don't know about that. I did just let you fuck me, after all."

"I think you were the one fucking me there, Bailey."

I laugh as I take another sip. "You sound like you're ready for round two."

"I can't tell if that's an invitation or a threat."

"Maybe both." I set my glass down and get up on my knees. I grab the nearly empty pizza box and set it on my nightstand, and then I crawl over to where he's sitting. I press my lips to the back of his neck. He's still not wearing a shirt, and it's kind of not fair that he can just sit there eating pizza and drinking whiskey sans shirt and those six-pack abs just ripple in the moonlight.

His scent is overwhelming as I breathe him in.

He leans down to set his glass on the floor, and he spins so quickly I nearly fall off balance. "Jolene Bailey crawling on her knees for me. Now that's a sight for my dreams tonight."

"Be a good boy and it won't have to just be in your dreams."

"I think I can get behind a drunk JoLo." He moves in behind me so we're in the doggy style position, the only thing between us his shorts. I feel the hard length of his cock as he aligns it to my slit, and the feeling is absolutely glorious. "Literally." He leans forward and reaches around under my shirt to cup my breast, and he plays with my nipple a bit.

I moan, and he chuckles softly as he massages my breast. I feel his lips against my neck, the scruff on his jaw that was absent when we were seventeen rough and sexy against my sensitive skin. He lets go of my breast and reaches between my legs to plunge a finger into me.

"Oh God," I moan as he drives his finger into me. He adds another finger as his lips drag along my neck.

"Fuck, Jolene. I love how wet you are for me. How ready. How much you want this."

I try to come up with some witty response, but words fail me as incoherent sounds escape from my lips. I'm close, so close, and he can tell. He gets rougher and more aggressive as his fingers pick up the pace, driving into me again and again as I push my hips back against him. I still feel his cock through his shorts cradled near my ass, and while that's still virgin territory, I can't help but feel like I want to give it to him. I want to give him everything.

The impending climax has my body aching everywhere for him just as he pulls his fingers out of me. I grind back against his cock, desperate for friction, desperate for him, but he flips me over so I'm lying on my back and he's still on his knees between my legs.

"Are you on the pill?" he demands.

"A little late to be ask—" I begin with a whopping dose of sass, but he leans down and cuts me off with his lips on mine.

He pulls back to talk, his words hot against my mouth. "Tell me you're on the fucking pill."

"I get the shot," I say against his lips, and the second the words are out, he leans up, reaches into his shorts, pulls out his cock, and plunges it into me.

"Oh my God!" I cry out as my back arches off the bed at the feel of his length inside me again. I clutch fistfuls of the white hotel sheets while he fucks me fast and rough, his hips slamming against mine over and over as he hovers above me.

I was already chasing an orgasm, but it's really on now as it builds and tightens inside me. He leans forward to kiss me but detours for my neck, where he grunts hotly against my skin. He thrusts harder, faster, furiously, as if he can't get far enough inside me, and all it does is push me completely over the edge.

My body seizes with pleasure that ricochets through me as I tighten my grip on the sheets. I scream his name through it as he keeps grinding violently against me, and all I can do is ride out the pleasure he's giving me as I nearly black out from how insanely good he feels, how incredibly hot this moment is.

Just as the jolts start to wane, he stiffens over me with his own release, his lips still on my neck as he grunts out a string of curses. He fills my pussy with every last drop he has to give, and then he collapses on top of me for a few beats.

I let go of the sheets where I'm still clutching them, not realizing how tightly I was holding onto them until I flex my fingers a little, and I wrap my arms around his back. He lifts his head and drops his lips to mine lazily. He's still inside me, and I feel his cock twitch like it's not quite ready to let go.

I'm not ready for him to let go, either.

I'm not sure I ever want him on the outside again, not when I've felt him twice tonight, not when I know how good we could be together.

Except we can't, and the reminder hits me as he eventually pulls out. His come leaks from my pussy and onto the hotel sheets, seemingly a symbol of the messiness of our entire relationship, and a deep sadness seems to creep into its void.

I'm not sure how we go back to Vegas and live our lives again without each other…not after the night we've shared.

Because it only took one night, and I'm in as deep as I was when I was fifteen.

The mere thought of it is terrifying.